


The Greatest Mystery: An Epilogue

by mirqueen



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Romance, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirqueen/pseuds/mirqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one of the greatest mysteries of the century, I met her. Torn between a child of her heart and a man she loved, her life and sanity hung in the balance. When I saw her, I assumed she was just a foolish woman. All that I first assumed was wrong. (AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Mystery: An Epilogue

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of _Sherlock Holmes_ or _The Phantom of the Opera_ , which are the property of Arthur Conan Coyle and Gaston Leroux/Andrew Lloyd Webber, respectively.

A/N:This is actually the epilogue to a multi-chapter Sherlock/Phantom story I’m working on. It stands on its own, though, so I decided to post it. This crossover will likely be one you have never seen before. Also, ‘interests’ (in the fourth paragraph) refers to a mixture of physical, emotional, and mental well-being, not simply to ‘hobbies’.

> **The Greatest Mystery: An Epilogue**

Her laugh washes over me as a summer breeze, warm and friendly in its temperate nature. Such a powerful effort would be required to turn away from the sight of her, gathering flowers from this field around us, that I can put no conscious thought into doing so. Here I lie, lazy in my complacent pastime while the wind breathes a life of its own into my hair and my clothing. How many days have we spent here, wallowing away the days and weeks? I cannot remember the last time we sat in the dining room. Every meal is arranged upon a blanket beneath the bountiful sunshine or the gentle moonlight.

It is strange to recall how perfunctorily I use to live. No single thing was without a place or a purpose in my life; no solitary being could be removed from their status in my heart and mind without due reasons to support the change.

Ah, but it was then that she came to me, into my sheltered world and my barren spirit. She defied that dry, desolate existence which, even as it held complete power over me, had lost its real meaning for me so long ago. Those slender hands left no stone of my life unturned or untouched. Where once I had seen only the endless, darkening abyss of duty and pride and vanity, suddenly there was color and music and life!

Something in even a mellow tune, as it escapes her throat in the morning rays of sun, leaves me jubilant and hearty in the deepest parts of my soul. I have never told her of the peace I gain from her unending resilience to the frightening circumstances this world knows. She would laugh at me, of this I am certain. Yet how can I not feel so, if she is to continue to pursue my interests so doggedly in spite of her own? Considerable value must be placed upon such plentiful selflessness. Not a soul in the great, mysterious universe may deny the extent to which this beautiful creature’s heart of compassion has expanded to include all living things that she may possibly touch.

There is no great, exaggerated beauty about her appearance; no perfectly flawless features that might call one’s attention. Some tiny wrinkles grace her mouth and forehead. Her hair has slivers of barely-there gray that begin to creep in from a life of stress and hard edges. The slightly uneven tempo of her stride is noticeable to an eye and ear as keen as mine. In the end, however, I can only be drawn to her dancing step. My eyes adore her dark, mildly unruly waves of auburn hair and the wrinkles are unnoticeable when my fingers subconsciously glide across her gentle, but slightly careworn face. Simply put, there is an air of grace and tranquility in her manner which can not be pushed aside as a mere flight of fancy.

Days could be spent pondering the ever-debated topic of what beauty actually is, but I saw it in her before I ever knew what it was. I was unable to explain it, too mired in my own logical brain to understand. Boundless love causes bountiful beauty, of a kind. And so has her life bloomed… with love and beauty, even in the most difficult and dangerous of times. Not the mere physical beauty, for she does not possess the social ideal of a supremely beautiful woman. The deep connection she forges between hearts and souls gives her an inward glory unsurpassed by the common gluttons of vanity that surround her in such multitudes.

Yet, more than this, the compassion she has shown for my own sorry state is the greatest glory of all. Who could love a monstrous fool such as I am? After all I have said in distaste of emotional relationships, what possible emotion could be felt in my regard, but for ill-taste? That is where she proved me wrong. So dreadfully wrong.

How  _wonderful_  it was to be wrong for once in my life. Even now, I smile as the day of my redemption comes to mind. More than even my saving grace, I vividly remember the glittering eyes which so soulfully searched my own gray orbs for a trace of emotional humanity. And they found it. They found it! Those undeniable pools of brown found the soul in me that I had stamped out of my very existence for so many years.

A twirl of deep green and gold catches my eye in the afternoon sunlight. I turn to the source, only to catch my lady as she glides down to my embrace, long folds of her rich forested gown fanning out around us.

"I love you," she breathes quietly, laying her head upon my shoulder affectionately and hesitantly, as she always does when she needs reassurance of my feelings.

"And I, you," it is so much easier to say, now that I have lived with her emotional strength these past months, "I will never stop loving you, Antoinette."

In the midst of one of the greatest mysteries of the century, I met her. Torn between a child of her heart and a man whom she loved, her life and her sanity hung in the balance as surely as the young diva she wished to protect. When I first laid eyes on her, my mind arrogantly placed her as just another silly creature of the fairer sex. Everything I first assumed, in relation to the woman in my arms, was wrong.

I should have known that she was not ordinary, not commonplace. It is so obvious in her manner, in her speech, in her walk, in her very face whenever I see or hear her. Something inhibited my logic, however. That something was the knowledge that I, the cold, detached detective who was not swerved by emotion, was attracted to a ballet mistress obscured in anonymity. I defied my reaction, swearing myself above such things, but I could not resist the pull of the only woman I have ever felt such love for.

The tiniest sigh escapes her then, one of satisfaction and relaxation that gives me joy to hear. So little peace has attended this heartfelt woman in her thirty-odd years. She deserves this rest and love every moment for the rest of her days. And if I have anything to say about it, she will.

* * *

 


End file.
